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The Best Sort of Blame
by Casira

The question arose rather innocently, all things considered, during breakfast in the TARDIS over tea and toast.

Rose blamed it later on the Doctor, who'd just emerged from the shower—a new one, in point of fact, down a corridor to the left of the kitchen she could have sworn wasn't there yesterday morning. Or whatever could possibly count as "yesterday" in this thing. She knew, at any rate, that the old Doctor—well, the Doctor before—hadn't ever pointed out that hallway to her, so when he showed up that morning from entirely the wrong direction, she had double the reason to stare.

The reason she didn't mean to mention, of course, was that he was still barefoot and barely dressed, and touseling his hair, and it only took him moments to notice she was staring at that waterdrop sliding down his neck and making its way toward the suddenly-fascinating slant of his clavicle, so she really felt she had to say something.

"Where the hell did you come from?" might not have been the best thing she could have come up with, but at least it worked.

He blinked at her, then grinned. "That way," he said, pointing. "Haven't used that room in ages. Almost forgot about it. D'you know it's got water jets in three directions? Can't imagine how I've been missing out on that."

He dropped the towel, tugged his loose shirt straight over his shoulders, and made a brief, skeptical stare into the teapot before sitting down to face Rose over the table. He must have properly interpreted the frown on her face. "She changes, you know. She's a bit like me. You should've seen the control room back in the old days, if you think this one needs too much jiggerypokery."

"But, you mean... rooms come and go?"

He shrugged, twisting his lips a little and glancing skyward even as he poured his tea; he didn't spill a drop. "Sometimes. The same essential functions all stay, though. It's just... kind of a remodel." He looked down at himself then, before smirking up in Rose's direction. "Sometimes it's an improvement."

She caught herself blushing, and hid it behind a sip of tea. Or at least that was the theory. It was really more of a gulp, and she scalded her tongue.

The Doctor missed that, since his attention had already gone to the breakfast, and he was buttering a slice of toast by the time she'd clicked the cup back down and set herself to pondering. She couldn't help but watch his hands, trying to puzzle out new mannerisms....

"How many times have you done this, then?" she said, her voice halting just a little. "Change, like that."

He looked like he was counting. "It's...ten, by now. Yes." He chewed thoughtfully, then added, "Legend says I can only do it thirteen times. Guess I'm starting to press my luck."

His eyes glinted with an odd, ironic humor on that last. Rose just sat back and thought about it. "So that's how come you're 900 years old," she said. "Cat with nine lives. Well, ten."

"That's me!"

Rose smiled. He did seem to talk in exclamation points these days: more so than he used to. He seemed happier, too. Rose wondered if he'd have told her all this before, if she'd asked. He obviously hadn't planned to explain, or she'd already have known.

He obviously wasn't planning to die, either, said another voice in the back of her head.

She had to work hard at shushing up that voice, for it always came carrying too many memories, and they were jarring ones, especially here. This all felt so normal, really. It was just her and the Doctor (whatever he looked like) eating toast with jam, and he'd missed a bit, there, on the corner of his mouth, and damn it, her fingers were itching to do something about it —

He was distracting, this one.

Especially, she thought a few seconds later, when his tongue flicked out like that to chase it away.

Later, she'd blame it on the tongue. Or the way he winked at her when he did it, because he knew she was watching, and he must have been teasing her for that. And that sly little curve to his mouth was suddenly making her think of other things, things she didn't quite expect where the Doctor was concerned, and really, it was a relevant question to the topic at hand, when it came right down to it, especially when he gave her a lead-in like this —

"Only difference between me and the cat," he said as he lifted his teacup, "is that I'm new all over. Every bit, from head to toe."

"No mileage on anything at all?"

"Exactly."

She'd have to admit later, though, that she didn't even pause. "You a virgin again, then?"

Rose felt a perverse sort of satisfaction as a little of his tea sloshed over the rim and spattered onto the table.

"Just asking," she said, all innocence.

He stared for a minute. "Why, Rose Tyler," he said. "That's the most impudent thing I think I've ever heard you say."

She let her own smile go more mischievous. "Impudent."

"Yes."

She realized by now, as she licked off one fingertip, that she was flirting outright. Somehow, she didn't care. "Could've been worse. I could have asked you if you were before."

"I think we've had that discussion...."

"Not so frankly."

"Indeed." The tea forgotten, he set it aside and leaned closer over the table. "Well. If we're being frank, I could tell you what you want to know."

Rose was still smiling, but she bit her lip; she wondered suddenly if "impudent" even began to cover what this conversation was about to turn into.

"I know how it all goes," he said, his voice going lower. "Nine hundred years'll teach you a few things. But you're right. It's all new. No telling how I'll respond now. I might like games. I might like it slow. I might be ticklish." He paused, and arched an eyebrow at her. "You think I might be ticklish?"

Rose looked at him, her gaze drifting and her fingers itching even worse than before. "I'm—not sure...."

"I could try, but you can't do that to yourself to find out, can you? I mean, there's things you can do"—and there he winked again, and Rose blushed deep. "Maybe there's reasons I didn't tell you about that shower."

A thousand images of him crashed through Rose's mind all at once, enough to make her lose the words in her mouth even as she tried to get control of the conversation again. "Doctor—"

He stood up, beginning to pace; a few stray drops of water still met the floor around him as he did. "Who knows what I'll find attractive now. Tall girls, plump girls, girls with nine legs—maybe I won't even like girls." He made a thoughtful frown. "That's never happened before. But anything could happen."

He shrugged off the idea, then grinned at Rose again. She looked him over, couldn't help it—every inch of him, from head to toe, and then that hand of his, even newer than the rest of him, which was suddenly reaching out for hers and drawing her to her feet. She gasped, and stumbled forward—maybe a little closer than she absolutely had to, or maybe he was pulling....

"There's really," he said, "only one way to find out."

Rose reached out to steady herself. She had to, after that tug, and the warm intensity in his eyes wasn't helping. And it wasn't her fault he was standing in the center of the room, so the only place her hand could settle was his hip. They were standing so close, certainly close enough for a dance, and almost positioned like they were planning to; memories of her last dance with him (oh, how long ago that felt!) made her pause. But then he tilted his head, and oh, God....

Rose's eyes drifted almost shut. She let her hand slide under the untucked shirt, finding his warm skin beneath (and for just a second she could barely breathe—), and just as they pressed even closer together, she moved her fingers in a quick, teasing tickle, and caught him completely unprepared.

The near-kiss against her mouth became a gasp, then an uproarious laugh.

"There!" Rose said triumphantly, chasing after him as he involuntarily jolted away. "Oh, you are ticklish...."

"I—ah!" he managed, still laughing, as he tried to twist away towards the door. Half-doubled over, half-running, he got as far as the threshold before Rose's fingers found him again, tickling higher up his sides and making him thump back against the doorframe, trapped there by her hands and gasping for breath.

"Bloody—regeneration," he said, on a swift rush of air. "Always so sensitive after—"

"You mean... it might go away?"

He nodded while her hands stilled, for just a minute, and then whipped his own hands up to hold hers captive. She gasped, too. And there they stood, her palms pressed flat against each thrumming heartbeat and their bodies so, so close —

"If you're planning to press your advantage, then," he said hoarsely, "you'd best get on with it."

Rose tried to breathe, stopped suddenly by the madness of all this. Her Doctor—the Doctor—wouldn't have been like this before, wouldn't pull her in this close, wouldn't tease her, wouldn't touch her—though there was one image at the edge of her memory, taunting her with its closeness but not quite reachable... and in any case, what she had in her grasp was so vivid it blocked out everything else. This was the Doctor, and she could feel him everywhere, so close so close and she ached with it.....

Her hands slipped upwards, inch by inch, until she'd pulled him almost down to her, and she knew she'd either have to kiss him or ask the question. As it was, she could feel his breath across her lips when she spoke.

"What else is down that corridor?" she whispered.

The Doctor's hands let go of hers, then drifted lower in slow motion; he moved so carefully she might have just imagined that feather-light brush across her breasts. But it was impossible to miss the pressure around her waist when his hands settled, guiding her slowly away from the door until it snicked shut.

"I could show you," he said quietly.

Rose stared back, then felt herself laugh, slipping close again and shaking her head even as her forehead rested against his shoulder. "I think I figured out the answer to my question about you," she said, though, still laughing as she drew back.

"Which one would that be?"

"The... impudent one."

The Doctor's smile spread even wider. Rose looked up to meet his eyes, and she smiled, too. "I think the answer's 'no'."

The Doctor took one hand of hers tightly and started to draw her down the hall. "Whether it's no or not," he said, "I think it's time for a fresh start, don't you?"

Rose looked into his eyes—a different shade they might have been this time, but the look was so familiar—and clasped his hand in return.

Later, when they were lying tangled and sated in a bed the TARDIS seemed to have kept waiting just for this, Rose had to admit that that hand-clasp itself just might have been the moment of blame for both of them. But if she had to point fingers—at that, or the hint of strawberry still in his kiss, or the way he gasped when she touched him, still sensitive, still new—it was all still blame she was happy to take.

But she was always, always going to blame the Doctor afterward for finding out where she was ticklish, 'cause she had the feeling he was never planning to forget it.

"Impudence," she accused him, laughing helplessly and wriggling aside as he did it again.

The Doctor just leaned over, captured her softly, and kissed her on the nose.

"Always," he promised her, and Rose grinned right back.